“You will come unstitched and bleed yourself out!” came the dulcet sound he both craved and dreaded. She was back again.
He turned too quickly and nearly fell. “What do you here?”
“What else?” She shrugged, holding out both hands, palms up. “To make amends. You must excuse my temper.”
“Do not tell me what I must do!”
She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Comes from issuing too many orders, I would think. There’s been no one else to do so for some half a year now, since my father died.”
In trying to quell the urge to fall down and faint, Richard held his breath for a moment. He released it on a question. “Why?”
“The Scots who killed my father also wounded his steward. He died later of infection. My mother left for the convent immediately after the funeral. The old priest died of age just recently. Eustiss would help me, but no one pays mind to his words. He is a Scot himself, after all, and most resent his telling them what to do. So, everyone looks to me, and there you have it.”
Here he had it. He nodded. “Sit,” he demanded. She did so, appropriating a stool near the fire hole while he shuffled to the chair she usually claimed.
“First of all,” he said, “we must address the attacks. I would call to arms all who are able to wield a weapon and assess their abilities. Training will take time, but I have no other recourse than to make defenders of those capable of it.”
She nodded and smiled her approval.
“No lord can be everywhere at once and the Scots take advantage of that fact. They attack the most vulnerable, those who would offer the least opposition. We must provide that resistance.”
“True,” she agreed with another succinct nod. “When would you begin?”
“Immediately, of course,” Richard answered, leaning on the armrests and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “The sooner the better.”
“Today?” she asked, unbelieving. “But you are not well enough! How do you expect to train a troop of men to fight when you can hardly stand without assistance?”
“I will do what must be done, my lady, and I, not you, shall decide what that might be!”
She leaped from the stool and paced, kicking her skirts out of her way with each step. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Undo all I have done for you, then. Ride out if you will. Challenge old Alan the True himself if you should happen upon—”
“Who?” Richard barked. “Whose name did you call just now?”
She stopped midstride and turned on him. “Alan the True, scourge of Bannockburn and friend to the old Bruce. Have you not heard of him? I assumed the king knew that he is the one we all dread.”
Richard felt his heart turn to cold lead, weighting down his very soul. Edward’s test of his loyalty was no longer an idle supposition, but a near certainty. “He may, though he has not mentioned him to me. Question is, my lady, what have you heard of this man? You are saying he is the one behind these raids?”
Her eyes took on a hatred so intense he marveled at it. When she spoke, her words contained pure venom. “That one boasted of his name to our men whom he left lying wounded in the wood. After he slew my father, he made certain all would learn of his deed.”
Her voice grew quiet with determination. “If you do nothing else when you are sound and hearty, my good sir, I would you brought me this man’s head. Do this, and I shall grant you anything that is within my power to give.”
Richard clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might crack. He dared not speak for fear of what he might say.
The woman could not know what she asked of him. Or perhaps she did. And he had small doubt that the king knew it also.
Richard wondered if Edward had brought him north for the sole purpose of pitting him against Alan. The wounding had not been planned, of that Richard was certain. However, it did seem fortuitous that the incident had left him in this particular place and with the responsibility of handling this border trouble. This, rather than the marriage itself, was to be his supreme ordeal.
Sara of Fernstowe wanted retribution for her father’s death and the king wanted rid of the threat to the Middle March. They could have conspired to accomplish both goals, using him as the instrument. Or all of this could be coincidental.
Not likely. But no matter what the circumstance, Richard could not do what they wished. Leastwise, not the way they wanted it done. Not for his king’s approval, not to satisfy his own resentment, and certainly not for this woman’s revenge, would Richard slay his own brother.
Chapter Three
Richard propped his elbow on the chair arm and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. But he knew that nothing he did would make this particular ache subside.
His wife, he hoped, had not yet put together the fact that this Alan the True and Alan of Strode were the same man. Richard had heard his brother called both by the family.
Of course, it was possible—even probable—that Alan had ceased using the English name of Strode. It was a place-name, though it had evolved into a surname long before his time. Alan had not been born there, nor had he ever lived at Strode. He might call himself Alan of Byelough now that he was lord of that estate, or simply Alan the True, a name earned by reputation.
Alan had declared himself a Scot, both by birth and loyalty, having had a Scots mother and lived in the Highlands with her family for a score of years. Their English father loved him well, despite that. Even Richard could understand why Alan, more than twenty years his senior, had chosen as he had.
He barely remembered the man. They had not seen each other since Richard was less than three years old. He was not even certain whether what he had of his half brother constituted real memories. His parents had spoken so often of Alan during Richard’s childhood, the recollections could easily be their own and not his at all. But Alan’s letters were genuine, and frequent, considering the difficulty of getting them delivered.
Somewhere in those hills across the border nestled Byelough Keep, the home Alan had gained through marriage to the widow of his friend after the Battle of Bannockburn. Richard wondered if times had grown so hard there that his brother must now raid the English to support his family.
Should he tell this wife of his about the kinship? She stood there anticipating his promise that he would slay this dragon for her. He decided to wait and see what would happen. In any event, she could not expect him to do anything about it in his present condition.
“He has attacked other properties,” she was saying now as she began pacing to and fro. Her action annoyed Richard, for he wished to do the same and could not. She continued, “Though my sire is the only noble he has slain, so far as I know.”
Somehow, Richard could not equate the man who wrote such witty and loving missives to his English father with the brutal knight she described, one who would put to death Lord Simon of Fernstowe and then brag of it to all and sundry.
Stealing to survive or taking an enemy for ransom, Richard could comprehend. Senseless killing, he could not.
Though this brother of his had slain a number of Englishmen on the field, the man had been renowned, even among his enemies, for holding to a knight’s code of mercy when given a choice.
Richard decided there was surely more to this tale of murder than he had heard thus far.
“So, you will find and destroy him?” his wife asked, interrupting his thoughts. “That should put an end the raiding. I would have done it myself